


And Let Me Try (With Pleasured Hands)

by QueenHarleyQuinn



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Smut, Touch-Starved, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 11:49:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21493801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenHarleyQuinn/pseuds/QueenHarleyQuinn
Summary: If Rick Dalton has a hobby, besides drinking, its making mountains out of mole hills. Always worrying about not getting an audition, and if he didn’t get an audition he would never get a part and if he didn’t get a part then he’d spend the rest of his useless fucking life never amounting to anything and-Whaddaya know, it’s a goddamn mountain.(Pre Movie, post Bounty Law, 1960s - Rick needs reassurance and Cliff gives it)
Relationships: Cliff Booth & Rick Dalton, Cliff Booth/Rick Dalton
Comments: 16
Kudos: 116





	And Let Me Try (With Pleasured Hands)

If Rick Dalton has a hobby, besides drinking, its making mountains out of mole hills. Always worrying about not getting an audition, and if he didn’t get an audition he would never get a part and if he didn’t get a part then he’d spend the rest of his useless fucking life never amounting to anything and-

Whaddaya know, it’s a goddamn mountain.

“It’ll work out, partner,” Cliff soothes him, as he so often does. His palm splayed between Rick’s shoulders, weighty and warm. They sit outside, deck chairs pulled next to each other on a sunny afternoon so they can overlook the city below them. An overflowing ashtray on the ground between them with a bouquet of cigarette butts.

Rick taps the ash off the end of his smoke, uncaring that it flutters onto his pant leg. His fingers shake as he brings it back to his lips, “It’s fuckin’ bullshit, Cliff.”

There was this guest spot Rick had done on a courtroom drama. He and the producer had lunch and drinks, the whole song and dance; it was  _ supposed _ to be a recurring role. And Rick would rather drown in his own pool than beg for a part but maybe he had been  _ persuasive _ , not desperate, and  _ enthusiastic _ , not needy, during their conversation.

A recurring role could turn into a backdoor pilot. Rick didn’t want to be a TV star forever but a TV star was better than nothing.

And that’s what he fucking was. Nothing. Worthless. Unimportant.

Cliff drifts his hand up and down Rick’s spine, maybe too fond and gentle for two in the afternoon. But the backyard always felt a little bit like an oasis; glimmering pool and plenty of sunshine. The nearest house in either direction was a little more than a stone’s throw, if Cliff was doing the throwing, and that always makes Rick a little nervous. But nobody was even home at this hour anyway, so it didn’t really matter what happened in the backyard.

“It’s their loss.”

The producer backed out. The writers cut his lines in half and nobody had the fucking courtesy to at least phone him about it beforehand. God, how stupid and hopeful he must have looked to come to set before his call time only to wait around in the parking lot with Cliff for one lousy scene.

“It’s my,” Rick pauses, thoughts skipping like a scratched record as Cliff’s calloused fingers climb back up toward the nape of his neck and graze the soft skin there, “m-my fucking loss. Jesus, fuck, I’m washed up.”

With his unoccupied hand Cliff stubs out his cigarette, “Enough of that.”

There’s a loss of contact for a moment and Rick  _ whines.  _ He doesn’t even have the decency to be embarrassed by his response – no, he’s far too comfortable around Cliff by now to ever feel shame about that sort of thing. Not anymore, anyway.

And, if the way Cliff is straddling him is anything to go by, Cliff is far too comfortable around Rick, too. 

“This is Hollywood, Rick, something is always around the corner. Don’t you feel it?”

The only thing Rick feels is Cliff’s body on top of him – perfectly solid and heavy and firm, right in his lap. Coincidentally,  _ Cliff on top _ is the only thing Rick  _ ever _ wants to feel. Cliff drapes his arms over the back of Rick’s chair, effectively caging him with his body.

Rick flicks his cigarette away because he has something else to inhale now. “I dunno,” Rick’s voice wobbles. His hands settle onto the tops of Cliff thighs as he leans forward, nosing against the column of Cliff’s throat. Manly and a little bit like tanning oil.

“Well, I do. You’re Rick fucking Dalton,” Cliff says. Platitudes always sounded better coming from his gruff voice. He tilted his head down and brushed his lips against Rick’s scalp as he spoke, sending goosebumps all over him, “You’re going to be just fine.”

There is, literally, no room to argue. Not when his entire world is narrowed down to Cliff’s body weighing him down like the human anchor that he is. Rick looks up, wets his lips and opens his mouth stubbornly to say something anyway, god only knows what, but Cliff’s too quick. His hand is on Rick’s jaw bringing their mouths together.

Strike the record; If Rick Dalton has a hobby, besides booze and worrying himself into knots, its being pinned down by Cliff Booth. It’s the friction of Cliff’s jeans against his trousers. The way Cliff’s hands always pull him nearer, lining up all their jagged edges to make one whole. Their complete mess of clashing teeth and low, throaty noises and shirts being thrown off.

The rest of Los Angeles whirs and spins and bursts down at the bottom of the hill as Cliff guides them around the pool and into the house – pausing only to shed belts and shoes and trade kisses until Rick is nothing but a wild, keening mess.

“Need you,” Rick moans, falling against the mattress, the sheets cool against his sun-warmed back, “g-godamn, need you so much.”

“I know, baby, I know,” Cliff spreads over him, soft and languid before grinding against Rick. Thin cotton cruelly separates them from full contact.

Rick fists his hands into Cliff’s hair, “Cl-- oh fuck,  _ Cliff _ .”

Cliff sucks hard on a spot by Rick’s collarbone, marking him. He’s territorial like that, leaving hickeys on Rick’s neck and chest and thighs. Rick’s legs part around Cliff as they rut against each other.

They kiss as Cliff reaches to pull down their briefs, freeing their cocks. Rick whimpers at the first touch, skin sensitive and wet with precum. “Oh,” his voice frays as Cliff wraps his hand around both of them, “Oh, fuck,  _ fuck _ , Cliff!”

When Cliff starts stroking them, rubbing his thumb over the heads, Rick’s reduced to an unintelligible brat. Moaning senselessly, scrabbling to hold onto Cliff’s shoulders as he fucks up into his fist. Hungry and needy for more contact. 

“You’re perfect, baby. Fuckin’ amazing. Mmm, fuck, so good for me.” Cliff praises. 

And it's unfair that Rick can’t string a sentence together when he’s like this because all he wants to say is  _ I love you, god, I love you _ . All that comes out is, “Cliff, Cl-cliff!” and he figures that’s almost the same.

Rick finishes first. How could he  _ not _ when Cliff’s on top of him making him feel like he’s worth something. His nails dig into Cliff’s back, perfect little crescent moons. Cliff comes a few moments after, gasping and brilliant.

A few tears collect in Rick’s eyes but that’s just his body’s default. He feels so deliciously spent, so taken care of; how could he not get at least a little emotional about a thing like that?

Especially when Cliff kisses his cheek before getting up. He wets a washcloth in the bathroom and cleans them, his motions soft and tender. Cliff laughs softly, “You cry if I fuck you, you cry if I don’t.”

Rick tries to kick him, lifting his foot pathetically, but he misses on account of how sleepy he suddenly is, “Screw you.”

“You just did.” Cliff reminds him, winking, as he tosses the towel away in the general direction of the bathroom. He climbs back into bed and pulls Rick into his arms, face to face. Chest to chest. A tangle of legs.

“H-hate you.” Rick says, smiling despite himself.

“Doubt that.”

Yeah. He’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of this feels a little out of character to me but I also mostly wrote it for some self comfort because I've been having a rough one. Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> edit: the story was previously titled "Treat Him Right" but I changed it to "And Let Me Try (With Pleasured Hands)", which is a line from Time of the Season by The Zombies.


End file.
